


In the Waves of Change we find our True Direction

by TheWolvenStorm



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Adventure, Arranged Marriage, F/M, Post War of the Ring, Romance, Slow Burn, Smut, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-27
Updated: 2019-05-27
Packaged: 2020-03-20 10:48:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18991150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWolvenStorm/pseuds/TheWolvenStorm
Summary: Father always said she was more nereid than girl. That she had saltwater in her veins instead of blood. That she belonged to Ulmo and the fish and the sea.Not for much longer.Soon she will belong to someone else. Belong to landlocked grasslands. Belong to horses and horselords. Belong to Eomer Eadig.Far away from the sea.





	In the Waves of Change we find our True Direction

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to AshelyFanFic for the Beta. You should go read her things.  
> She's started a GOT season 9 fic that somehow manages to fix everything and remain canon compliant. 
> 
> And thank you Justwanderingneverlost for the Lovely mood board.  
> She just updated her GOT modern AU called Torniquet.  
> You should go read that as well.  
> I just want to spray that angst in a paperbag and huff it.
> 
> ___
> 
> “It is said by the Eldar that in water there lives yet the echo of the Music of the Ainur more than in any substance that is in this Earth; and many of the Children of Ilúvatar hearken still unsated to the voices of the Sea, and yet know not for what they listen.”  
> ― J.R.R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion

 

 

 

 

 

The familiar rush of sea salt air billows at her shawl, lifting the edges even as she tightens her hold. Clutching delicate weave to her chest as she approaches the shore. In the grey early morning light, the moon reflects in the dark water. The pale sphere distorted in the waves crashing to the shore. 

 

It’s a sound she’s known her whole life. She’s never been without it. The rhythmic roar and churn of the sea. The heartbeat of her life. 

 

_ How quiet will it be without it?  _

 

Kicking off her slippers, her feet sink into the white sand of Dol Amroth’s shores. The powdery grains clinging to the nooks and crannies between her toes. Decorating her dark skin with a fine sheen of glittering crystals. 

 

It should be annoying, irritating. But it may be the last time she'll ever feel it. The sucking pull of wet sand on her bare feet as she trudges toward the water, discarding the shawl and her nightdress with a swift motion. Leaving her bare as her birth. Her footsteps never faltering as she walks into the sea. 

 

Gooseflesh ripples over her skin with the cold splash of water. The familiar chill making her shiver as she wades in up to her belly. Normally she’d jump in right in. Instantly submerge herself and surrender to the sea. 

 

But today she wants to feel it, to savor the ocean’s embrace. 

 

She gasps as the cold water reaches her breasts. The sensitive skin tightening from shock and chill. 

 

_ “It’s always better to just get it over with” _ her mother used to say. Rip-off the bandage. Dive right in. It’s always going to hurt. 

 

She closes her eyes and dips beneath the surface. Letting herself fall into an oncoming wave. Reaching an arm forward before pulling it back. Her long lithe limbs pushing water behind her with each stroke. Swimming further and further away from the shore. From her home. 

 

From her future. 

 

The waves grow larger and choppier as she swims out of the calm bay at the foot of the castle into open sea. The dark water growing angry and spiteful the further out she swims. The weight in her heart growing heavier, threatening to pull her beneath, to drown her in her grief as she climbs each wave as they come crashing down upon her. 

 

Father always said she was more nereid than girl. That she had saltwater in her veins instead of blood. That she belonged to Ulmo and the fish and the sea. 

 

_ Not for much longer. _

 

Soon she will belong to someone else. Belong to landlocked grasslands. Belong to horses and horselords. Belong to Eomer Eadig.

 

Far away from the sea. 

 

Her muscles begin to ache, and her lungs begin to burn as she pushes herself further out in to the open water. And yet she goes further, saving nothing for the return to shore. If this will be her last time in the sea, than let it do its worst. 

 

The waves crash and roar around her. The swells of dark water overtaking her, disorienting her. Struggling back to the surface in the valleys of each wave only to be pushed back under as they break on top of her. Sucking down air each time she breaks through. Gasping for breath before being dragged back beneath. 

 

And yet she fights. Strong swimmers limbs kicking and pulling her back to the surface. Pushing her farther than she’s ever gone before. 

 

If Ulmo takes her, than she has always belonged to sea. 

 

If he spits her out, than perhaps she is something more. 

 

The sky above begins to lighten. The grieved grey growing blue. The moon finally sinking into the sea as the sun grows warm on her back. 

 

‘ _ Its time _ ’ the deep whispers. 

 

‘ _ Not yet _ ’ she fights on. Her limbs growing tired, weak. A furious cramp starts in her calf. The muscle hardening into a painful pulsing knot. 

 

_ ‘It’s time’ _ the deep repeats. She bites her tongue, flexing at the ankle, trying to stretch and pull it out as she treads water. 

 

_ ‘No’ _ she answers. Struggling to keep her head above the waves as she battles her body. 

 

_ ‘It’s time’ _ the deep roars. A large wave swelling in front of her. Cresting into a frothing white foam of galloping horses stampeding down on top of her. 

 

It crashes into her, tossing her around. Leaving her disoriented and helpless in the cyclone of water. The tide pushing and pulling her in a thousand directions. Batting her back and forth until her lungs are set to burst

 

And she breaks through the surface, back in the calm bay at the foot of Dol Amroth. Facing the shore, facing her home. 

 

Air fills her lungs with heavy heaving pants that quickly descend into heavy heaving sobs. Salty tears streaming down her face, dripping off her chin to join with the sea. The water laps at her shoulders, gently pushing her in the direction she needs to go. And she surrenders to its will.

“Lothiriel!” 

 

Her father waits at the shore, holding up a dressing gown, his eyes pinched shut and face turned away to protect her modesty as she slips her arms through the oversized sleeves.

 

“It’s alright now,  _ Atta _ .” she says quietly, tying the blue silk sash around her waist and bending to gather up her slippers. 

 

The skin around his eyes crinkle in a bright smile as he looks upon her. The lines of his face have grown deeper these past years. The horrors the wars he’s faced etched on his face. Grey roots sprouting in his raven hair. 

 

Who will take care of him in his twilight years?

 

His chest expands with a deep inhale of sea-salt air as he wraps his arm around her shoulder turning her to face to the water. The sun light sparkling off the waves as they tumble over one another into the bay. 

 

“This was your mother’s favorite place.” he says, a far off look his eyes. “We used to ‘sup here once a moon. It was our time for each other. I think Amrothos was conceived out here.” 

 

“ _ Atta! _ ” she cringes. “I don’t want to hear about that.” 

 

Her father laughs, that deep baritone chuckle that she’s known her whole life. His face slowly fades to a sad smile. A smile full of a joyful memory and deep sorrow. His eyes traveling across the line of the horizon with a deep sigh. 

“It's important in marriage… to make time for each other. Leadership is difficult. Marriage is difficult. Your mother managed to do both with a grace I could not fathom.” his hand reaches for her face, taking her by the chin and turning her to meet his eyes. “I know you will do the same.” 

 

Her heart sinks to her stomach, a deep fear twisting in her belly. She licks her lips and tastes salt. But the taste does little to cover up the bitterness she feels in her heart. 

 

It was always her fate to be sent away from this shore. The swan princess of Dol Amroth was always destined to be some lordlings bride. To seal some pact between the Lords of Arda. But to be sent so far away. Away from her home, away from the sea.

 

Shameful. Selfish. All those times Father rode off to War, now not just father. But Elphir and Amrothos too. They rode to war. They fought and served and did their duty. She can do hers.

 

Her father leans in and kisses her forehead. “I have a gift you.” 

 

He pulls out a small silk handkerchief, covered in delicate embroidery, and pulls out a silver swan necklace. Outspread wings connect to a chain, its long neck wrapped around an  opalescent glass gem. 

 

“It’s beautiful.” she sighs tracing her fingers over the crafted wings. 

 

“Nuh-uh-uh,” her father tuts pushing aside her hand. “Now watch.'” 

 

She leans and focuses as he gently lifts the swans neck, and the glass pops out of place. It’s not a gem, but a vial. Her father takes it gingerly and kneels beside the sea, carefully dipping it into the water. 

 

“There” he says, sealing it and replacing the delicate mechanism that keeps it in place. “Now you’ll always carry the sea with you.” Slipping the beautiful silver chain around her neck. “Now you’ll always have a piece of home.” Cupping her face. “You will make the finest Queen Rohan has ever seen.” 

 

“I will do my best to make you proud.” she finally answers, digging deep within herself, latching onto that frail notion of duty. 

 

“Come, Lothiriel. There’s much to do, and we must leave before midday if we are to meet your cousin, Faramir, before we cross the White Mountains.” 

 

He strides off toward the castle, but she lingers a moment longer, glancing out at the open water. The sun light glittering off the waves as they lap up to the white sand. 

 

_ ‘It’s time’ _ the deep whispers once more, and she glances down a the necklace, and the few drops of the sea held within, before turning to her father, waiting for her a few steps ahead, and walks toward him. Toward her father. Toward her future. Toward her fate. 

  
  


*~* 

 

The road to Edoras from Dol Amroth is a long one. The road is treacherous, mountainous. And her body aches with the long ride. She has never been ahorse this long. It burns deep in her legs and her seat. The silver mare she rides, a betrothal gift from her husband to be. The filly is strong hearted and defiant. Restless with a tendency to charge ahead to try and catch leaders of their troupe. 

 

More than once, she’s seen the hot eyes of their company on her as they ride. Watching her struggle with the horse. Some Queen of Rohan she will be, a queen of the horse lords who cannot even bend a gentle mare to her will. 

 

Her brothers and father tell her stories of the ride with the Rohirrim as they made their way south to fight in the Great Battle for the White City. Cousin Faramir boasts of his new wife, Lady Eowyn, who blushes and laughs before boasting herself of her own deeds. 

 

And the conversation always turns to her husband to be. Praising his courage, and honor and valor. His strength and determination, and she cannot help but wonder what he has heard of her. 

 

Did her father boast of her during the long ride to war? What did he say? What would he have said? She has accomplished no great deeds. No acts of valor or bravery. She did not ride into battle alongside her father and brothers like the Lady Eowyn. She has not withstood sieges, or attacks from wildmen. 

 

She tended to the wounded after the battle, of course. She and every other woman in Gondor. A good deed for sure, but not a great one. Her husband will find her useless. Useless for anything but her lovely face and her fertile womb. For a family name that will secure peace between the kingdoms of man.  Her hand reaches for the vial around her neck, clutching it tightly, whispering prayers that the sea god cannot hear. 

 

“What troubles you, my lady?” Eowyn falls back to ride beside her, the silver mare mercifully trotting lazily along the Great West Road. Her sister to-be’s golden hair catches the sunlight, her pale skin kissed by a thousand freckles. 

 

The truth catches in her throat. A solid lump of honesty that she swallows down. 

 

“What is your brother like?” she asks instead. “I have heard what my father and brothers have said. But men only notice so much…” 

 

“They are insolent things.” Lady Eowyn laughs, brightening with an unrestrained joy as she looks off at Faramir riding ahead . “Too stubborn for their own good.” 

 

“Is your brother… too stubborn for his own good?” 

 

She swears in Rhorric, rolling her eyes “Yes. If he were made of wood he would snap in two for refusing to bend.” she lets out a frustrated noise. “When we were young, he would make me want to tear my hair out.” Eowyn flashes a smile that shows all her teeth which quickly fades. “I apologize, I’m sure that’s not what you wanted to hear, Lady Lothiriel. 

 

She bites her lip and shakes her head. “I would rather know the truth of the man who would be my husband.” 

 

Eowyn draws up her reins, the warhorse between her thighs instantly halting. Much to her chagrin, it takes another moment or two before her mare follows. “The truth is my brother is a complicated man. These past years… have taken as much as they have given.” The fair woman's hand slips to a spit low on her belly. “He still grieves.”

 

She shakes her head and clicks her tongue and obediently both horses begin to walk again. “I was overjoyed when I learned he had accepted Ihmaril’s offer of your hand. I hope you will bring each other joy.” 

 

“I wish it too, my lady.” she answers. 

 

“Come now.” the shieldmaiden laughs. “Let us see what that unruly beast of yours can do.” Snapping her reins and springing the horse off into a canter that quickly sweeps to a frothing gallop. 

 

She tries to follow, even though there is no way she’ll ever catch her. Yet she fights on, gripping tightly with her thighs, holding fast to the saddle’s horn when she fears to fall. Chasing after the white lady with as much as she can give. 

 

The green gold plains of Rohan fly beneath her as she charges headlong after the Eowyn. Rushing past her father and brothers, her cousin Faramir, their guards and company. The filly seems to rejoice in the speed, letting out high whines of delight between steaming snorts. Each stride kicking up clumps of grass and dirt behind her. The rhythm of the hoofbeats growing into a crescendo. 

 

The earth falls away under her, pink sunset light blending off the tall untamed grass, creating a seemingly endless horizon. Small rolling hills tumble over each other like slow moving waves lapping some heavenly shore.

 

Her silver leaps a stream without direction, following in the steps of Eowyn’s warhorse. The impact jarring, rattling her bones, and yet they race on. Gaining with each stride until she can feel the small particles of dirt that the warhorse kicks up ahead of her. Following the stream as it bends North, toward Edoras and the Golden Hall. 

 

Eowyn slows as the pinks of the sunset become purple, her pace fading to a gentle trot, her pale face flushed with joy and sport. She rears up alongside, the silver filly practically skidding to a stop. 

 

“Have you named her yet?” 

 

Lothiriel shakes her head, breath coming in quick shaky pants. “No. I haven’t thought of something clever. I’ve just been calling her ‘Silver’.” 

 

“ _ Hyria Seolfring _ ” Eowyn answers. 

 

“What does that mean?” 

 

“Silver Storm,” Eowyn answers patting her horses neck and glancing around the grasslands. “We’ll make camp here for the night.” Dismounting with a practiced ease and striding over to take hold of her silver’s reins. 

 

“Thank you,” she offers shakily, as she slides off the horse. Her legs wobbly as she lands on the ground. 

 

Eowyn only nods. “My brothers outriders should find us soon. It is only a few days ride to Meduseld.” 

 

_ A few more days _ , she bites her lip as she pulls out her filly’s bit, before releasing her to graze. 

 

A few more days to Edoras. A few more days till she is married. A few more days till she is Queen of Rohan.

 

*~* 

 

It grows in the distance with each passing moment, a small anthill that becomes a molehill, that becomes a mountain, that becomes a wooden city on a lush green hill. Green Banners bearing a white and gold stallion flapping along the ramparts. Her own bannerman draw up alongside her father and the Lady Eowyn, bearing the White Tree of Gondor, and the Blue Silver Swans of Dol Amroth. 

 

Horns blow at the gates, and they swing open. Rough wood, hardwood. Her fear catches in the back of her throat as she passes through the gate. The column of riders fall into a line, and suddenly she realizes she is alone. 

 

Her father an Lady Eowyn march at the head of the column, flanked by their bannerman, backed by her brothers, and cousin Faramir. 

 

And she is alone in the center of it all. 

 

People come out of their homes, and stare at the company. Stare at her. Leaning out windows, or climbing atop thatched roofs. Pale people with the same spun gold hair as the lady Eowyn. They call out ot her, their beloved lady. Rushing up to her as she waves. The Shieldmaiden plucking a white flower from an outstretched hand. 

 

A stone sinks into stomach, the weight of duty slumping her shoulders as she withdraws into herself. The horse length between her brothers and her seems like a mighty chasm pulling them apart. 

 

“Elphir,” she calls to her older brother. Something desperate and pleading. He doesn’t hear her, her squeak too small to be heard over Amrothos and Faramir’s laughter. Does he not see the crowds? Does he not see how they are watching her? 

 

“Elphir,” she repeats and this time he turns in his saddle, the bright smile on face fading, eyes so very much like her own shining back at her. 

 

“Lothi?” 

 

She gestures with her head to the empty space at her side, and the sorrow in her heart tears open anew when he shakes his head.

‘Please’ her mouth forms the shape of the word.  _ Please don’t leave me alone.  _ Her heart completes the thought, her hidden fear for these many months finally cracking through. 

 

‘Its okay’ he mouths back, straightening his spine and puffing out his chest, ‘Chin out…’ 

 

Her heart skips from the sting of his rejection, but she does as she’s told, rolling her shoulders back and swallowing back tears. Sucking down air. Wet grassy air that tastes like earth. Filling her lungs as she did back home. Before vaulting off the cliffs into the sea. 

 

The houses grow larger as they begin to crest the top of the hill, and above them all, The Golden Hall stands proud and strong. Banners bearing the white stallion whip proudly in the wind. Intricate woodwork covering every wall with heritage. 

 

Reminding her that she will always be an outsider here. 

 

Stable hands and guards come to assist the party, but Eowyn slips off her horse and races off  before anyone can stop her. Taking the stone steps two or three at a time. 

 

“And she’s off,” Faramir laughs to her father. “I wonder if I will ever find her again.” 

 

“Just running away from you,” Amrothos quips as Elphir takes her hands, helping her off her Silver. Leaning against him as she regains her feet. Straightening out her dress, the light blue wool no doubt reeking of road and horse. 

 

Elphir straightens her hair, tucking a few stray wind whipped locks back into the intricate pliate she had somehow managed without a mirror this morning. Taking both her hands and guiding her through a long stabilizing breath. 

 

“Shoulders back.” She nods as he lists all the pieces of the performance. “Hands front,” he commands letting her hands fall low on her belly. “Chin up,” he lifts her chin with a finger, “and smile.” She swallows and curls the corners of her mouth. Her oldest brother smiles back at her, a sad look in his eyes as he rubs her shoulders. “You’re going to make a fine Queen, Lothi.” 

 

“Lothiriel.” Her father calls extending his hand for her at the base of the steps. And for a moment she is frozen in place. Her feet refusing to move until a gentle wave crests her shoulder. Gently pushing her toward her father, looping her arm around his. Her riding boots sounding much too heavy on the stone as they climb the steps to the Golden Hall. 

 

The heavy wooden doors are carved with with gilded horses, and father pats her hand before striding forward to the herald and speaking in hushed tones as she folds her hands. The Herald eyes her suspiciously before nodding to the guards and opening the door. Her father gathering her hand once more and leading her through the doors. 

 

The Golden Hall is smaller than she expected. But warm. Her eyes scan the space, looking everywhere except the dias. Wooden walls full of banners and tapestries, furs and fires. Long tables lined with benches fill the hall. Decorated and set in preparation for a feast to come. Support columns carved with thick angular patterns, that seem soft in all their intricacies. 

 

“Eomer King!” the herald calls in booming voice. Startling her out of examination. “The host from Dol Amroth. Prince Ihimaril, and his sons, Elphir and Amrothos. Lord Faramir, Steward of Gondor. And the lady, Lothiriel,” then gestures to her, “The Swan princess of Dol Amroth.”

 

Her eyes finally fall on the far end of the hall. A magnificent bannered mare behind a throne a of gilded wood. Lady Eowyn stands next to it, a bright smile splitting her face, hand resting on a man’s shoulder. On a king’s shoulder. 

 

His face is similar to that of his sister’s, though harder and stained with long years in the sun, and long years at war. Dressed in muted wools and leathers. Long hair pulled back into a clean simple braid. He stands, tall and broad and blonde, striding towards the party, spreading large arms open as her father moves to meet him. 

 

“Ihmaril,” his voice rough and thick with Rohrric. Clapping her father’s shoulders in a warriors embrace. “Welcome, my friend. I trust your journey was uneventful.” 

 

“It was much easier than the last time.”

 

The king releases her father, and turns to Elphir clapping his forearm. “Elphir, Amrothos. It is good to see you both again.” 

 

“Eomer King!” Elphir lauds. 

 

She watches carefully, quietly, feet planted to the stone floor as the men greet each not an arms length away from where she stands. His eyes glance to her, once. Twice. And a third time as Amrothos makes some jest about reeking of horse. Each look lasting less than a second. Each look lasting an eternity. 

 

“Eomer. You’re being rude,” Lady Eowyn chides, looping her arm through hers, and gently pulling her through the crowd of men. Bringing her to stand before the king. His long gaze lingering on her a moment too long. 

 

“Of course, my apologies Lady Lothiriel,” her name rolls of his tongue, extending his hand to take hers and bowing his head ever so slightly. “I find myself at a loss for words.” 

 

“I know the feeling Eomer King,” she answers hoarsely. Swallowing hard to find her voice after a false start.  “It is an honor to finally meet you. Your country is lovely, as is your home.” 

 

“The honor is mine, my lady.” 

 

Her cheeks feel warm, and quickly flare with heat as her awareness extends out to the dozens of eyes watching their exchange with rapt investment. The air growing thick with a painful silence. Glancing down to find her hand still in his.

 

The King clears his throat, letting her hand fall. “I’m sure you are weary from your travels, my lady. Maerwen will show you to your room.” 

 

“This way, my lady,” a kindly old woman bows her head and directs her.  She follows with a nod to the King and the others gathered. Throwing one last curious glance over her shoulder at the man who would be her husband. 

 

The rooms and quarters of Meduseld are much simpler than grand hall. The wood walls and lack of windows seem to compress the space, closing it in around her. A few braziers providing what little warmth and light they can in the oppressive darkness. 

 

“It’s been a great many years since there has been a lady of the Golden Hall,”  Maerwen says as she guides her through the maze of narrow halls. 

 

“What of the Lady Eowyn?”

 

Maerwen snorts and chortles. 

 

“A proper lady.”

 

“Oh,” she answers quietly. A proper lady who sits quietly with her needlework. Bears children and hosts feasts and festivals. 

 

“Here are your chambers, my Lady,”  Maerwen opens a door to a suite of rooms. A small sitting room leads into a bedroom and privy. Large windows, shuttered and hidden by a thick curtains. A large bed covered in heavy embroidered quilts. 

 

She wanders through the chambers, idly touching various pieces of furniture. A vanity with a mirror of warped glass and beaten silver. The large wooden bed posts canopied with a deep linen. A wardrobe with doors etched with intricate Rohhric knots. She points to door in the corner of the bedroom curiously. 

 

“The kings chambers,”  Maerwen answers the unspoken question. 

 

“Oh,” she whispers, a knot of anxiety tying low in her belly. “Of course.” 

 

“We’ll be bringing your things, and I’ll draw you a bath and get some food in you.” 

 

“Thank you.” 

 

What she craves is solitude, a moment alone after over a full moon on the road. But instead bodies rush in and out of her chambers over the next hours. Servants bearing her trunks from their pack animals. A platter of food and drink, buckets of hot water for a bath. 

 

Even in the bath, she is robbed of peace. People move from beyond the privy door. Servants unpacking her things. Seamstresses getting her measurements from her clothing. The fireplace being lit. 

 

Taking a deep breath, she submerges herself in the tub. Seeking what she craves under the water. But it is only bath water. It does not roar or rage. It has no heartbeat. No life. And the song of the sea cannot reach her here. 

 

“My lady, dinner will be ready shortly. There’s to be a feast honoring your arrival.” 

 

She hears the words as if through glass bell. Maerwen’s voice breaking over the water above her. Exhaling a rush of bubbles, she lingers beneath the surface. Letting the thin weight of the water press around her for a few moments longer, before sitting up right. 

 

“You have lovely dresses, my lady.” The servant lays out a few of her silks on the bed. “Though I’m sure we’ll be needing to get you some woolen ones soon. Gets awful cold in winter. Snow up to your knees. Sometimes higher.” 

 

She fingers the dresses, gingerly toying with the seams as the Maerwen leaves with a bow and a nod. She slips one over head. A powdery blue silk billowing around her before settling at her feet. 

 

“Oh pardon me, m’lord,” she hears through the walls. Amrothos’ voice whispering in hushed tones after her. Followed by a sharp rasping knock on the door. 

 

“Enter.” 

 

Her brother swaggers in, still in his riding leathers, plopping down heavily on an overstuffed chair in the sitting room. 

 

“Did you know that there is absolutely nothing to do in this dreary city?” 

 

“You could bathe.” 

 

Amrothos doesn’t acknowledge her words, instead snatching some food off the tray. Shoving his mouth full cured meats, hard cheese, spiced apples. 

 

“I mean there’s not even a brothel. What am I supposed to do with myself?” 

 

“And the women of the mark all rejoiced.” She sighs heavily and sits at her vanity, combing and sectioning her long dark hair. 

 

“The women of the mark weep for what they have lost.” he scoffs, eyeing her. “Is that what you are wearing?”

 

“Yes.” 

 

“How dreadfully dull, Lothi. You are trying to woo the man aren’t you?” 

 

She inhales sharply, twisting in her chair to lash out him, but thinking better of it, lets it out in a slow breath.

 

“Our marriage contract has been negotiated, blessed by King Elessar, and we have both consented. There will be no wooing.” 

 

Amrothos snorts out a laugh. “My dear dutiful Lothi.” He stands and leans against her chairback, still chortling to himself. “Do I need to be the one to explain the mysteries of the marriage bed to you?” 

 

“I know my duty,” she snaps, tugging the comb through her hair. “Why should I pretend this is anything other than what it is?” 

 

“And what is this?”

 

“Securing lasting peace between the Realms of Men. The Oath of Eorl is well and good, but it will now be sealed with blood and marriage. Lady Eowyn to Cousin Faramir, and I to Eomer King.” 

 

She doesn’t look at him, but she can feel Amthros’ eyes searching her through warped glass of the mirror. Hear him chewing on his tongue as he leans above her. She places the comb neatly on the vanity and begins twisting the the divided sections into a long rope. 

 

“You and Elphir and father went off to war and fought.” She continues. “You nearly died. Because it was your duty. Because it was what was right. Now, the war is over, and there is peace, and it is my duty to secure that peace,” she says, fastening a pin with pearl bead into the loose weave of her hair.

 

“I want you to be happy too…” 

 

“Perhaps I will be.” she lies, pinning more beads into the dark rope, until it looks dotted with stars. She turns to look at him then offering the light smile that has become the mask she will wear for the rest of her days, until the darkness fades from his eyes. 

 

“I still think that dress is dull.” He pushes himself off the chair back and begins rummaging through her trunks. “Where’s the one you wore on the Anniversary of King Elessar's Coronation, blue with the swans.” 

 

“They’re all blue with swans.” She smiles, pointing to the wardrobe.

 

He plucks through the dresses, all tidily hung, pulling out a gown of blue velvet decorated with silver hem and silver feathers. And a neckline that plunges down to her navel. Laying it on the bed with a flourish.

 

“It’s indecent.” Picking up the gown and returning it to its spot in the wardrobe.

 

“You wore it in front of the King of Men, why is the King of Horses any different.” Amrothos counters, pulling it back out and handing it to her. 

 

“I was young and unbetrothed,” Pushing back his hands.

 

“And you are still young, and you are to dine with your betrothed.” Tossing it at her.

 

“I am to be Queen of Rohan, I mustn’t look like one of your common harlots,” she argues, tossing it back to him, 

 

“Oh, dear sister, I assure you my harlots do not have such finery.” He lifts the dress up to her neck, the soft crushed velvet ghosting over her skin. “Trust me, Lothi.” 

 

A long hot breath streams out her nose as she relents, taking the dress in hand. “Fine, I’ll wear it but only if you bathe. You reek of horse.” 

 

Amrothos chuckles as he swings his foot around. “You best be getting used to that smell. Lothiriel,  _ Queen. _ ” 

 

*~* 

 

The smell of ale and the sounds of men’s laughter erupt through the Golden Hall. A dozen or so men donning the bannered mare of the Mark, her father and brothers, cousin Faramir and Lady Eowyn, and Him. 

 

She chooses to be late. Something dramatic and defiant flaring in her belly when Maerwen lets her know that the others have gathered in the grand hall. But she holds her head high as she enters. The company of men standing as she approaches the long table. Eomer King stands as well, the impression she makes obvious in a blank stare. 

 

“Eomer King,” she acknowledges.

 

“Lady Lothiriel,” he sputters before gesturing to her chair. 

 

“I apologize for my tardiness. It seems the long journey was more tiring than expected.” 

 

“It is no trouble,” he assures. 

 

“I thank you, for honoring my family with a place at your table.” Glancing down, she finds a full cup of ale, and raising it to the long table. “And I thank you all for the honor of your company.” 

 

The men cheer, raising their glasses and drinking and she raises it to her lips. Amrothos tossing her a wink as she pretends to drink. Eomer raises his flagon, eyes locking with hers as he brings the mug to his lips. 

 

It is the first time she has been truly able to see them. His eyes are green woven with brown, yet flecked with gold. Like moss on a tree catching the first rays of the are sun. 

 

The food is rich, boar and salted greens soaked in butter. Potatoes and mushrooms. She didn’t realize how hungry she was until the platters of food are brought before her. Weeks of trail rations leaving her craving a meal such as this. 

 

The marshals and her brothers laugh with her father. There is a camaraderie between soldiers that she does not share. Their conversation flows with ease, bonding over the things all those who fought in the war share. 

 

She keeps quiet, measuring her husband-to-be with cautious glances, as he does with her. More than once, those little looks meet, briefly becoming a contest of wills to see who will break off first. He is quiet comely, her husband-to-be. She should be grateful. There are many a young Gondorian girl who have been less blessed.

 

He tries to hide his emotions beneath something stoic, but to the careful observer, they are writ plain. 

 

To his sister, he is jovial. The two of them sharing long looks, speaking silently through small nods and blinks. A broad smile on his face as she tells him of the time since they were last parted. To cousin Faramir, he is torn between joy and jealous. Joy that he makes Lady Eowyn happy, jealous that he took her away from him. To his men, he is both comrade and king, and it is a delicate line he has yet to master. The balance between loyalty and leadership. 

 

And to her, he is cautious, courteous. The conversation light and simple. Speaking of small things such as the tenderness of the boar and quality of greens. The weather on her long journey from Dol Amroth. The well-being of his friends in the White City, King Elessar and Queen Arwen, Legolas and Gimli. If she finds her rooms satisfactory. Trifles to fill the awkward air between them. 

 

She is introduced to the Marshals of the East-fold and the West and their seconds, as well as Eomer King’s right hand, Alhelm, and their wives. Each offering polite words and courtesies. Offering their assistance if she should need it. She’s also introduced to several other prominent members of the mark. The horse master, Dunthain, is given a prominent place at the table, as well as his young daughter, a girl her age with a sun stained face and red gold hair. 

 

“Lady Lothiriel-” she interrupts a terrible joke Amrothos makes at Elphir’s expense. “I had hoped to petition you on behalf of-” 

 

“That’s enough, Someryth.” Dunthain warns. “The king has heard enough of your petitions.” 

 

Someryth scrunches up her face. “That is why I am addressing the Queen” 

 

“Unfortunately, my dear,” she answers, “I am not yet the Queen, and I am afraid petitioning a lady of Gondor will do little good.” The young woman’s face falls. “But I will gladly listen…”

 

The girl opens her mouth to speak, but her father claps her shoulder, effectively silencing her. “Apologies, my lady. This is a night to celebrate, not for discourse.” 

 

“No apologies are necessary, my good ser.” Her eyes locking with the horsemaster’s, that edge of defiance becoming sharp in her spine. “But I would hear what your daughter has to say.” 

 

The girl looks between Lothiriel and her father, and deflates. “It is nothing, my lady.” Someryth’s shoulders slumping as she returns to her seat.

 

She glances to her side, finding her husband-to-be watching her closely. 

 

“I don’t suppose you’ll tell me what that was about, Eomer King.” 

 

“A minor nuisance in the court.” he nearly growls, taking a long drink of the mug of ale. “It is nothing of concern.” She hmms a non-response, covering her mug with her hand as a servant passes by to fill her ale. 

 

Eowyn laughs loudly, playfully punching Faramir in the shoulder, drawing both their gazes to the couple a few seats down. 

 

“Has she told you yet?” She asks casually. 

 

“Told me what?” Eomer raises his brow, a scar next to his eye crinkling with the expression. 

 

“If she has not, then it is not my place to say, Eomer King.” she flashes him a smile, but is greeted with a furrowed brow. 

 

“I would have you tell me.” 

 

“I am afraid I cannot,” she teases slipping a forkful of boar into her mouth, delicately covering her mouth with her hand. Forcing him to stew in the mystery as she slowly chews and swallows. “For I have not yet been told, but travelling with another woman for a over a moon’s turn offers many insights.” 

 

She would not have thought it possible for the crease of his brow to become any deeper, and yet it does. Confusion twisting his face, eyes flashing with anger. 

 

“If there is something wrong with my sister, I would know it.” 

 

She withdraws, the coy game no longer fun as his voice becomes menacing. “I mean no-offense, Eomer King.” 

 

“Eowyn, are you well!?” he snaps. Something fierce and protective in his voice. 

 

“What?” his sister looks shocked and confused, breaking away from laughing at Amrothos’ tales of his time searching for the islands of Tol Eressëa. 

 

“Are you well!?” 

 

“I am fine, brother.” A delighted confused smile dancing across her face. 

 

“You are not ill? All is well with your Lord Husband?” 

 

She looks at Faramir, a question in her eyes. A few glances and shrugs speaking silent volumes. 

 

“We had meant to wait until after the wedding-” Her cousin starts, gasping his his wife’s hand. Eowyn grinning, looking full to bursting. 

 

“I am with-child!” she squeals, the shieldmaiden beaming, her face glowing with life. 

 

Congratulations pour out from around the feasting table. The men clapping Faramir’s shoulder, while the ladies coo over Eowyn. But her husband sits frozen, shock painted on his face. 

 

“My King,” she whispers, nudging Eomer’s flagon towards him. He looks at her for a moment, something terrible flashing in his eyes, before he shakes the expression off his face and hauls himself to his feet.

 

“A Toast!” he bellows raising his flagon. She pushes out her chair and stands next to him holding hers out as well. “To my sister, her husband and their family. May it continue to grow.” He says something in Rhorric, private words to his sister that make her squint back tears before drinking deeply of his ale and settling back down. 

 

Her husband-to-be drinks freely as the the energy of the room slowly dies, full bellies and plentiful ale lulling the patrons to their beds. Elphir and her father dropping off first, the other lords of the Mark following soon after. Eowyn and Faramir flitting away, playfully slapping at each other as Eomer chugs down another full mug of ale and Amthoros attempts to woo a serving girl as she tries to clear the table. 

 

“Ignore him, my dear,” she chides, glaring at her brother. “He is a wretched thing.” 

 

“You wound me, my Lady.” 

 

“Find your bed, dear brother, and let the poor girl perform her duties.” she orders, lifting her water goblet to her lips.  

 

“Not even Queen yet and you’re already bossing everyone around.” Amrothos barks a laugh, pulling himself to his feet, stumbling drunkenly, and catching himself on the edge of the table. “My lady,” he bows dramatically, “Eomer King.” 

 

Eomer humms an acknowledgement as Amrothos finds his feet, teetering as he searches for his bed. Her husband-to-be does not find her eyes, now that they are alone in the empty hall, save for a the tutting of serving girls as they gather platters and plates. A girl refills his ale, and offers to refill hers. But she waves it away with a smile, dismissing the girl to her duties in the kitchens. 

 

She leans back in her seat and waits. If she can endure the oceans wrath, then she can endure his. A small voice in her head chides her, how foolish was she to tease, to provoke. How uncourteous, how impolite, how unlike a queen. 

 

But that small voice is drowned by the oceans roar. 

 

“I do not take kindly to being teased,” he finally states, taking a drink, not looking at her, his words slurring ever so slightly. 

 

“And I do not take kindly to men who find their comfort in their cups,” she answers, salt water pulsing through her veins. He freezes. Fingers flexing around the flagon. Lips pressed together in a hard line. She has touched a nerve. She should congratulate herself. Surely no queen in the third age has managed to enrage her king so quickly. Or managed to disgrace herself so quickly. 

 

He sits stoically staring into the flagon. Searching for something she cannot name. His frame tense and rigid. Strong and silent. 

 

“I had hoped we would have a moment alone to speak, as we are to be wedded, but it seems you are not in the mood. So, I bid you goodnight, Eomer King.” 

 

She stands in a huff, marching towards her bedroom. But in a flash his hand is around her wrist and she is spun back into his grasp. Backed up between him and one of those intricately carved columns of the Golden Hall. He leers over her. Breath hot in her face. Her hand still caught in his grip. Strong and solid. 

 

Tension pools in her stomach. A thrilling familiar fear, like the moment before diving from the cliffs to the sea. The free fall before piercing the water. He stares at her, the green brown weave of his eyes a thin ring around a wide pupil. They rake over her, following the neckline down to her navel. The narrow stretch of bare skin from between her breasts to her belly.

 

“I do not take kindly to being teased,” he repeats, the words raspy and strained. Something fearsome struggling to remain contained. The candles lighting the room seeming to dim in the late hour. His free hand finding the ends of her hair and toying with them between two finger. Skimming along the velvet of her gown. 

 

“And what do you take kindly to, my King?” she whispers as he looms over her, her heart racing, Her muscles pulling tight, ready to flee or fight or… 

 

A loud crash rings the Grand Hall. Platters and plates and flagons ringing on the floor. The noise shattering the quiet intensity, like lightning splitting the sky. He pulls away quickly, releasing her wrist, stepping back. 

 

“I’m sorry, My King,” a young girl blusters, bending to scoop up the clutter. He shakes his head, the thick fog of drink startling away. Looking up at her with shock and shame writ plain on his face. “I did not mean to-”

 

“It’s quite alright, my dear,” she answers for him, finding her voice, not breaking away from his stare. “No harm done. Please do be more careful.” 

 

“Th-thank you, my lady,” the girl answers, gathering the spilled flatware onto a platter. “I will.”  

 

“I bid you goodnight, Eomer King.” Quickly escaping to her rooms. 

 

Sleep should come easy in a comfortable bed, with a full belly after a long journey. But it does not. 

 

She can hear him pacing through in his rooms adjacent to hers. The wooden walls of Meduseld doing little to mask his footsteps. Sometimes his steps are frantic, quick and frustrated. Sometimes they are determined and righteous. Sometimes they pause and she wonders if he has finally put himself abed. 

 

And other times she hears them close to the other side of the door that adjoins their chambers. 

 

She had not meant to upset him. It was joyous news after all. A part of the effort to unite Rohan and Gondor complete. Eowyn and Faramir are blessed. His sister healthy and strong. The shieldmaiden would not have made the long journey if she did not believe it was safe for her to do so.

 

The pacing stops, and wood creaks under the weight of heavy man collapsing onto a bed. She turns onto her side and hears her own creak as well. Her awareness of the sounds freezing her in the bed. 

 

Is he listening for her the same way she has him? It seems unlikely from the sound of snores thick with ale beginning to emanate from his room. Her eyes find the open window and the full moon hanging outside. 

 

Edoras on its high hill like an island in the sea of grass. The green gold grass shining silver and blue in the moonlight. Wind rushing over it, whistling through it, bending the long stalks down with each gust. Making them seem like gentle waves in the calm bay outside of the Dol Amroth. 

 

In her sleep addled mind she can see it, hear it. The sound of the sea lord beating the steady rhythm of his song deep beneath the waves. 

**Author's Note:**

> Still hiding from Game of Thrones, felt like writing something that honors a hopeful fantasy story. And these babies are my long lost favorites.
> 
> Kudos and Comments feed my soul.


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